


Blue Moon

by down



Category: Parasol Protectorate - Gail Carriger
Genre: M/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-20
Updated: 2012-12-20
Packaged: 2017-11-21 19:03:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/601086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/down/pseuds/down
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>The first time Lyall spent the night of the full moon with Alessandro, it was a mistake, and in far less than ideal circumstances.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blue Moon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Supertights](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Supertights/gifts).



> Spoiler-free for book five. Thanks go to the hippo, and to the beta they found me!

* * *

The first time Lyall spent the night of the full moon with Alessandro, it was a mistake, and in far less than ideal circumstances. 

It was getting late, but he was on the trail of an apparently rove vampire who had been murdering an assortment of people in the past month. No one had been able to spot a motive or a connection until Lyall spoke with the husband of the last victim, and he mentioned her involvement with the Chartist movement, sparking a light in Lyall’s mind. He had seen a copy of the _Northern Star_ in the home of one of the earlier victims, and leaflets in the pocket of a third; checking dates indicated that most of the murders had occurred on the night of a meeting of the National Charter Association, or some other supportive group. 

The new-made widower mentioned there was to be a meeting that coming evening to catch the crossover of those who kept daylight and darkness hours, at which Henry Hetherington would be speaking. As one of the leading lecturers of the Chartists who had avoided being sent to prison a few years previously he would draw a large crowd, which meant there was every chance the vampire would strike again. But by the time Lyall had returned to BUR to share his findings the sun was high and Lord Woolsey had already left for the pack’s home. It was the night of the full moon and his presence would help the younger members of the pack keep control as it approached. 

There was no other agent Lyall trusted to sniff out the vampire before it was too late, so he took to the streets himself, leaving orders that whichever other agents came in should be sent out to find him, and that he would be leaving London two hours from sunset at the very latest. That should give him enough leeway to return to Woolsey safely before nightfall. The clerk – the only person in the building, as most of the agents were asleep in order to be refreshed for watching over the full moon revels that night – assured him that the first people to arrive would be sent as soon as they arrived. 

In the course of that chase, tracing a scent more than a day old and fast fading, several things went wrong. Firstly, it took him through Billingsgate market and, while he might be fonder of fish than the average werewolf, the combined stench of the market place, stale blood and seaweed, unwashed sailors in their red worsted caps was enough to make him shudder; it also clouded the trail. Normally the market would have nothing left on sale by this time of day, and no people to either buy or sell – in fact, Lyall was fairly certain it should have shut by the time the sun rose – but there had been a failure of a launch further down the river the day before, and the fishing smacks delayed. Some were only now pulling in to the quay, and the whole place was in confusion. 

There weren’t many places Lyall couldn’t make an attempt at fitting in; he dressed well enough to satisfy his own standards, yet unobtrusively. But people came to Billingsgate in their very worst; shiny cord jackets worn threadbare, coats which had holes, and anything to look like a poor target for the thieves and the thugs – practically everyone present. Here, Lyall’s neatness would turn heads; he kept his cloak close about himself. The scent of the vampire – which was irritatingly familiar – took all his concentration to parse from the miasma rising about the early morning market, and he was so intent on his task that he did not notice when he picked up a _second_ tail. (The first he had noted a while before the distractions of the market.) 

He did notice it rather abruptly when he was pushed headlong into a barrel of eels. Live ones, at that, the owner’s chant (Eels’o, eels’o – alive’o, ali- OI!) turned into a stream of unintelligible swearing in a broad Norfolk accent. Lyall twisted and flung himself forwards, so that the barrel rolled over the edge of the wall and fell to the floating wharf below, breaking apart out of reach of any opponent. The barrel smashed on impact, with a hand from Lyall; unfortunately, so did the wharf below, and he found himself abruptly entering the cold water of the Thames. 

Lyall was not dressed for swimming. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say he was not undressed to fall into the Thames, as no one in their right mind would subject clothing of any particular calibre to that water. If the term brackish could be applied to a liquid which was still moving, then the Thames would claim the epithet. As it was, Lyall was wearing one of his favourite waistcoats, and already mourning it. It might not take the structural damage from this that it would from his changing whilst he was wearing it, perhaps, but the smell would be impossible to wash out. Nor would the stains. 

His cloak caught on the splintered timber and tightened about his neck, clinging about his arms as he tried to pull free. Twisted about in the confusion of the dock breaking, Lyall struck his head hard against a more robust section of timber before he managed to tear it off and swim out from under the pier. He pulled himself up inelegantly onto the slippery wood, head spinning and his vision blurred. The mass of people crowded along the riverbank mostly kept back from the hole in the wood, nervous of following him into the water, but he heard one person drop down onto the planking and walk towards him – he lifted his head, but he was offered a hand up instead of further violence. Warm fingers wrapped about his wrist, and steadied him as he would have fallen straight back into the water; humanity washed over him, a chill running down his spine. 

Or perhaps he was feeling the chill of the water more, as a mortal. 

He looked up into the blurred but still handsome face of London’s only preternatural. “…Ah, Signor Tarabotti. Good morning.” 

“And to you, dear Professor.” Tarabotti inclined his head gracefully, a hint of a smile lurking about the mouth. “Though whether any morning can be good which includes a swim in the Thames…” 

Lyall nodded, lips twitching upwards a little. He had met London’s only resident preternatural (save his daughter, who was really too small to count as yet) a few times, mostly at various society functions. Now, as then, Tarabotti held onto his hand for just a _little_ longer than society deemed polite. He always seemed to study Lyall in those moments of vulnerability, dark eyes taking in everything. As one used to blending in, that steady regard unnerved Lyall. 

It was a common secret that Tarabotti was responsible for a handful of supernatural deaths and disappearances since his arrival in Britain, but all his victims had been causing enough trouble for BUR to turn a blind eye to his activities. Taking umbrage had the potential to cause an international incident, and Tarabotti’s efforts had eased their workload of some of the messiest of their tasks. Which was not to say that Lyall approved of this stance, but as the head of BUR was also his Alpha he was careful not to question the policy so long as it worked. 

With Tarabotti holding his hand, the pain in his head seemed to be increasing, and his teeth were threatening to chatter. “I beg your pardon, but if you would not mind…” He said, gesturing slightly at his temple, where he could feel a trickle of warmer liquid among the sharper dampness of the river. 

“Ah. Yes.” Tarabotti let go, and the pain began to recede as Lyall’s supernatural nature reasserted itself, and his head began to mend. “My apologies. Do you not think it a fitting thing, that the best someone like me can do to aid those of your kind is to stand away and do nothing?” 

Lyall stood straighter, and tugged his waistcoat straight, then gave up on it with a sigh. Tarabotti held out a handkerchief, with a faint smile; the spectacle Lyall must look seemed to be amusing him, at least. As his own handkerchief was as sodden as the rest of his clothing, Lyall accepted it gratefully – though he shivered as Tarabotti managed to brush their fingers together in passing it across and humanity flashed through him again. 

“I take it you are tracking the rogue vampire as well.” Lyall said, not particularly surprised. 

“That was my intention, though this morning I have been following you.” Tarabotti spread his hands, an elegant gesture which ate away at the space between them. Lyall wondered whether that was an attempt to make him uncomfortable, or simply a condition of being Italian. Gestures seemed to be an integral part of conversation to them; it made talking a rather more dangerous pastime than usual. One had to remain constantly on guard for an outflung hand. “It seemed more efficient. I had nearly caught up with you when you decided to take a bath.” 

Lyall raised an eyebrow. He had known Tarabotti was following him for at least a mile; it startled him more that he had approached Lyall than that he had been tracking him, but he had not expected an open admission. “Did you happen to see my assailant?” he asked, glancing at the crowd now avidly gathering along the quay. None of them seemed angry enough to be the attacker, except for the eel-monger who was still cursing, his stock having swum away. Whether they would last long in the Thames was a matter for speculation; they were certainly going to make the attempt. “It cannot have been the vampire himself, of course – a messenger?” 

“A drone, with instructions to warn it if someone should tail it, I suspect.” Tarabotti nodded. “He headed further east, from what little I saw. Hopefully he will lead us to the rogue. That is, if you will accept my company?” 

“Will my acceptance have an effect on your actions?” Lyall asked, amused. 

“On my proximity, perhaps.” Tarabotti shot back, lips quirking up. “It would be far more agreeable to hunt together; you of all people must be aware of the advantages of a _pack_ …”

“We would make a decidedly unnatural pack.” Lyall decided he had done what he could to clean the blood from his face. The handkerchief was stained, probably irrevocably; he folded it, and put it into his own coat pocket. “I shall have to replace this for you.” 

“Do not worry about it, my dear Professor. But if you are resigned to my companionship, I think we had best be leaving.” He glanced about at the crowd as it began to press nearer. “Or else I fear even your bedraggled state will not keep your coat free from unwanted hands.” 

“A curse-breaker and a werewolf, seen off by a pack of fishmongers?” Lyall said, amused, and he looked up in time to see Tarabotti smile. The expression was just as handsome as Lyall remembered. It was with no little misgiving that he realised he was not immune to that smile; not so much the handsomeness, perhaps, but the invitation it seemed to extend to laugh at the world with him. 

Which was not the only kind of invitation Tarabotti turned on the world, but Lyall could ignore the flirting far more easily than his own responses to the man who he found himself infuriatingly fascinated by. Not just his nature, but why a preternatural trained to hunt supernaturals would come to Britain, where they were so accepted. 

“ _Billingsgate_.” Was all Tarabotti said, but it was, indeed, enough. There were plans to have the market rebuilt, and apply the watch of civilisation closer upon it; for now, though, the wooden shacks crammed together about the place were beginning to heave with hardened faces, ready to combat each other over price and place. (Or, indeed, plaice.) Not for nothing had the word become slang for uncouth manners, and they were both far too well dressed. 

Lyall had made something of an art form out of being unnoticed, and unremarkable. But it was terribly difficult to do either when he was without his hat and wearing several gallons of river water. Tarabotti strode across the quay as if he expected the crowds to give way before him, and somehow they did, sheer force of personality repelling them from the man just long enough for he and Lyall to make their way through. 

They walked at a fast clip, only slowing down when they reached the place Tarabotti had lost sight of the drone so that Lyall could pick up the scent. Usually it would be hard, in human form, but with the full moon this close there was more of the wolf bleeding through than was the case elsewise. Besides which, Lyall rather prided himself on his olfactory skills, and this trail was fresh. It led them east – not crossing the river, as he had thought it might, but around the Tower and out to the Isle of Dogs. (Tarabotti smiled, but thankfully refrained from remarking.) It came to an end at a run-down warehouse tucked in an unused corner behind the West India Docks and abandoned, probably due to the smell which clung to the building; the last tenant had been an inventor, by the look of the equipment left behind and the smell of the chemicals which had been used in them. 

There were tables with paper strewn across them, and in the corner an open trap door leading down into a cellar just as abandoned as the rest of the building. But their rogue had been here, and frequently. The cellar was dug into the earth and then walled with brick, to keep the damp ground from subsiding; an adequate space for storing volatile chemicals, or for hiding from the sun, if no better alternative existed. 

There was no one apparent, but the smell of the rogue vampire and two – no, three – droves. Lyall made a quick circuit of the building, but the droves had scattered in all directions, muddying the waters, as it were. The papers were likely to be of more use than attempting to follow any of the trails, as no one had thought to collect them. (Rogue rove vampires attracted a particularly poor quality of drone when they found any at all, it seemed, and only such distinct aberrations as Lord Akeldama managed to gather as many as a hive might all on their own. It took a particular strength of personality.) 

By the time Lyall entered the building again, Tarabotti was looking through the papers with a faint frown of concentration, all the force of personality and mind pressed onto one thing. Training could have taught him the kinds of patterns to look for in his quarry, in a mystery set before him, but there was a natural swiftness in the way he dealt with the evidence before him, and Lyall paused in the doorway a moment to observe. 

When he focused the smiles dropped from his face, and his eyes were dark and sharp, and… beautiful. 

Lyall dragged his thoughts back to the task at hand, joining Tarabotti. There were various pieces of Chartist literature about, and Tarabotti was already pulling those with a common theme to the top of the piles, and things snapped into place. “Ah.” Lyall said. “Temperance Chartists. I should have thought of them.” 

“Not only do they want to extend the vote to all men, but they also wish to cut down on vices – such as supernaturals.” Tarabotti nodded. “I have read a few of their latest leaflets, there are some groups becoming more outspoken against the non-human.” 

“After the main party resolved it was campaigning for rights for supernaturals as well, I suppose the more extreme members had to go somewhere." Lyall sighed. He had thought that the worst of the disturbances caused by the Chartists would be over for a few more years; after all, most of their more important leaders were still imprisoned after the rioting in forty two. 

“Do you wish to take a closer look at the cellar before trying to find a trail?” Tarabotti asked, still leafing through the papers. Lyall glanced out of the open doors. Sunset had crept uncomfortably close, and there was no sign of the BUR agents he had been promised, though he had made certain to be seen enough they should be able to find him. Tarabotti shifted next to him, focus switching to werewolf instead of papers. “Ah. Or do you need to return to Woolsey?” he asked, quietly. “...You might leave now, if you wished. I will track the vampire. It may not be here, but we know where it will be tonight.” 

“We know where his victims will most likely be. We do not know which he might choose,” Lyall pointed out, softly. “So far, though he has killed on the nights of several meetings, he has always done so away from the meeting-place itself. Can you trail every likely candidate?” Besides which, he and Tarabotti both knew he could not trust the other man; hunter by nature and habit, he would almost certainly see the vampire killed. Lyall needed answers, not a corpse. “This is a BUR investigation, I am afraid I cannot delegate it to you. But there is still time; BUR has a cell which will hold me, if necessary.” 

“I see.” Tarabotti nodded acceptance, only a faint tension visible in the lines about his eyes. “Well, then, the cellar?” 

They climbed down into the dimness of the room below the ground, which was surprisingly deep, and the ceiling vaulted like a castle pantry. There was little to see; a rumpled mattress lay on the floor, straw poking out of the ratty seams, and no blankets. This had to be a rove; no hive would ever let a member live in such a situation, not even a secret agent. Which at least meant Lyall had no reason to visit the Westminster Hive soon; a small relief, given his first suspicion that this had been some kind of plot of theirs, as it was happening in London. He was also startled that a vampire living like this would manage to acquire any drones at all. Though perhaps they had joined him before he went mad and sank to this level, and remained from loyalty? 

There was little of interest to see, though, and Lyall was turning back to the ladder when he heard several sets of footsteps entering the room above. “They said he came this way, right? How long ago was that?” one asked. “Will the Professor still be about?” 

“This close to sunset, and him a werewolf?” another scoffed, and Lyall sighed. The clerk had been truer to his word than one might wish; the first in must have been the newest recruits, still bumbling and over-eager. Lyall had not met any of them yet; they tended to start on the day shift. Today they must have been delayed so they too would be out for the full moon. 

“’Ere!” one of the lads yelled, and Lyall winced at the loudness. If there had been a vampire present, that would surely have waken it. “There’s a trapdoor over here!” 

The distance up to the ceiling was too far for a mortal to leap, but only a mild stretch for a werewolf; Lyall jumped up, ignoring the ladder. He caught the edges of the trapdoor and pulled himself through in one smooth movement. (Which was certainly not showing off for the company he was keeping, not at all.) 

A moment later, there was a cry of ‘vampire!’ and he was struck forcibly in the chest. 

Lyall fell back through the hole in the floor, more from shock than anything else. He landed almost on top of Tarabotti, who caught his arms and steadied him as the trapdoor above slammed shut. 

The agents ignored his calls – and Tarabotti’s – chattering among themselves like an excitable flock of birds, though at least they were not dressed so parrot-bright as Lord Akeldama’s drones usually were. Lyall’s protests died in his throat; they were not listening to anything but each other. There was a scraping sound, as heavy furniture was pushed swiftly over the entrance; far too much for Lyall to push away from below, stood on a ladder. The light was blocked entirely, and they could hear the young agents flocking out of the building, highly excited at their success in capturing a rogue vampire. 

“That was the vampire, then? The right one?” 

“No mortal could jump up like that.” The first voice – also the one who had pushed Lyall – declared. Correctly, but coming to a very incorrect conclusion with it. “See all these leaflets? It’s got to be. The Professor left word it was all to do with the Chartists.” 

The whole event had taken less than a minute. Lyall stared at the ceiling, silent. 

“…Well. This is unfortunate.” Tarabotti murmured. “Twice over, in fact.” 

The rogue was not trapped, BUR would not be looking for it, and Lyall was imprisoned with a mortal on the night of the full moon. By his count, that was three. 

“You shall have to touch me.” Lyall said, voice stiff, and he braced himself for the innuendo which was bound to follow. But Tarabotti only nodded. Lyall blinked at him, only just able to make out his expression in the thick darkness, and found himself irritated by the sudden hesitation there. “Why, Signor Tarabotti, do not tell me that you are having second thoughts? And after all your flirting. Or perhaps you are merely rethinking the wisdom of turning your attention on one of my kind?” 

“I do not wish to turn my attention on any who are trapped with me and find such advances uncomfortable.” Tarabotti said, his own tone gone wooden. “Particularly when we are trapped in a small area until dawn. Awkward situations are so discommoding.” 

“True.” Lyall sighed, pulling his irritation back under control. “I am afraid I will be unable to contain myself without some assistance, tonight.” 

“That is what I do not understand about you!” Tarabotti declared, suddenly, waving his hands in the air. “Why would someone so concerned with control as yourself ever wish to take the bite? You puzzle me so.” 

Lyall raised one eyebrow at him, lips twitching, before remembering that he would be unable to see as Lyall did in the dark. “Perhaps I simply enjoy a challenge,” he said, as blandly as he could. 

Tarabotti’s gaze hit him steadily, for all the other man could not _possibly_ actually see in this light. Lyall swallowed, a different kind of itch to the impending change starting up in his chest. 

“…No. With _you_ , I think, nothing is simple. Especially not if it seems to be.” 

Lyall’s lips twitched up, and the last of the tension eased. He walked across, and Tarabotti held his ground in spite of being unable to see the expression he wore. “Perhaps I sometimes complicate things I do not need to,” he admitted, softly, and he reached to take Tarabotti’s hand with his own. 

Humanity shuddered through him once more, easing away the itch of the full moon, the tension at the base of his skull that he barely noticed until it lifted and he was left almost lightheaded from the relief. Long fingers slipped about his wrist, holding on carefully as they arranged themselves on the rat-eaten mattress side-by-side to wait out the night. 

They talked at first of the vampire they were chasing, but as they had discovered the papers above and could do nothing more from here, it was a particularly frustrating topic, and they turned to others. Innocuous things; the fuss that had arisen last week over a drunk throwing things about in the British Museum and smashing a roman vase; how society seemed more interested in why a drunk would visit the British Museum than the damage done. The folly which was the latest theatre hit. But Lyall had been awake for more than a day, now, and was mortal besides; he began to shiver, his clothes not drying in the chill of the cellar. Tarabotti turned towards him and reached out, rubbed one hand over his far arm, and Lyall resisted the urge to curl into the other man’s embrace just for the warmth – only then Tarabotti was tugging him closer, keeping a hand carefully on his wrist. 

“Dying of a cold before we are able to escape from here would be terribly undignified, don’t you think?” he murmured. 

“More undignified than curling on your lap like a child?” Lyall said, though he let himself be pulled close enough that their legs were tangled, and Tarabotti was wrapping his cloak about both of them. 

“Not like a child, I think. And there is no one here to see. No one who counts.” 

“…You count, Signor Tarabotti.” Lyall ducked his head, pressing it against the curve of Tarabotti’s neck. He nudged the cloth away until his forehead pressed to naked skin. 

Tarabotti’s hands were startlingly gentle. Especially given the consequences should they break contact – then again, wound so close together, would sheer proximity keep him human? It would be interesting to study, some time when circumstances were less inopportune. His breath, when he laughed quietly, ghosted warm over Lyall’s neck. 

“In the circumstances, perhaps you might call me by my first name?” 

“It _would_ seem more fitting.” Lyall sighed, and closed his eyes. He was still shivering, but less violently, and slowly he began to relax into the warmth of the other man. “…Alessandro, then.” 

“You should sleep, my dear.” Alessandro murmured, and Lyall smiled against his neck. 

“As I am sure you know, my name is Randolph. You may use it. …I won’t bite.” 

Long fingers curled in his hair, and Alessandro laughed again. “Sleep, then, Randolph. I dare say I have rested more recently than you, and we cannot have a werewolf getting ill. Whatever would BUR come to, without your intelligence behind it?” 

“Flatterer.” But Lyall found he trusted Alessandro, with this: with the two of them. Unwise though it might be. And he was so very tired. 

* * *

Lyall did not wake when the sun rose, and Alessandro let him stay that way until there were footsteps in the room above them, and the scraping of the weight being removed from the trapdoor. They got to their feet quietly, and Alessandro yawned as he let go; Lyall reached out and helped him straighten the collar his head had crumpled sadly, as Alessandro could not see it even if there had been light in the room. He felt a little creaky from the damp, and the cold – from the long hours without supernatural resistance to either – but apart from that he was without the usual lingering ache of a night raging and surrounded by silver without the cognitive skills to heed it. 

“You did not need to let me rest so long. You could have woken me and taken your own turn,” he said, softly, and Alessandro shrugged. 

“It looked like you needed it. And you will have plenty of support now, in your hunt. I shall go home and sleep the day away, while I am sure you will be working again.” Lyall raised an eyebrow at him, as light began filtering in through the cracks in the trapdoor. “I try not to interfere directly with BUR’s investigations. It seems… unwise.” 

“That did not stop you trailing me yesterday.” 

“You were alone then.” Alessandro shrugged, elegantly, looking away. “That was different.” 

Slowly, Lyall realised that Alessandro’s appearance right when Lyall might need help had been no coincidence. That in fact, he had been waiting to see if he _was_ needed. 

He had witnessed Alessandro flirting with dozens of people, even in their short acquaintance. But he had never before witnessed him being _helpful_. 

The trapdoor to the cellar creaked open, and a somewhat shamefaced young man looked down at them – the man who had shut them in, the evening before. Lyall blinked into the light, and the figure looming behind the boy resolved into Major Channing, the handsome and frequently absent Gamma of the Woolsey Pack. 

Channing, along with a large number of the pack, were in active service with the Coldstream Guards; they had returned from serving in North America nearly three years previously. Lyall had known him far longer than that, however, and though they were old friends he still found Channing frequently irritating. Particularly when Channing was immaculately dressed, in spite of the hour and the day, and Lyall was wearing the crumpled remnants of clothing he had put on more than two days ago. Worse than anything, though, was the stubble he was certain would be gracing his face after a night’s humanity. 

But at least long acquaintance meant Channing took one look at his expression and made no comment. He tilted his head to bare the well-dressed line of his throat before he nodded in greeting. “Morning, Lyall. Seems to have been a bit of a mix-up last night.” 

“Yes, that does appear to have been the case.” 

“Very sorry, Professor Lyall, sir.” The boy was clutching his cap in his hands, shoulders hunched in, a picture of shame. “Wasn’t aware it was you, sir. Thought as how you must have been that vampire we were after, and you gone home, what with it being so close to the full moon. Sir.” 

“Why, when you had followed me here, did you think I was anyone other than myself?” Lyall asked, mystified, and the lad coloured and said nothing. 

Channing, however, huffed a laugh. “You didn’t match the description they were given,” he said, and the import of that did not strike home until Alessandro laughed quietly. Lyall glanced at him, and he made a gesture encompassing every wrinkle and smudge of Lyall’s clothing. 

“You must admit, darling, it is not _quite_ up to your usual standards.” 

“You thought I was a murderous vampire. And yet you locked Signor Tarabotti in here with me anyway?” Lyall said softly, looking up again, and the boy flinched. 

“Didn’t look down and see him, sir.” 

Tarabotti stretched, one hand grazing the back of Lyall’s neck – just enough to turn him mortal for an instant. Lyall stifled the shiver which threatened, but not fast enough for Channing to miss what had happened. The amusement vanished from his blue eyes, to be replaced with suspicion; Channing disapproved of Alessandro Tarabotti for all manner of reasons, mostly because he was Alessandro Tarabotti: curse-breaker and foreigner, who turned up where he should not be and flirted with Lyall in spite of their opposing natures. 

And the moment that frown drew lines on Channing’s forehead, Lyall found himself straightening, and giving back as inscrutable an expression as he possibly could – particularly when inflicted with stubble. He would have to purchase a razor. If, by chance, this should happen again…

Or even if it happened on purpose, he admitted to himself. 

“I came out soon as we were informed you were missing.” Channing explained. “Fortunately BUR had worked out what happened, or I’d have been tracking you all day. Did you fall in the Thames, Lyall? Threw me right off the scent, that did.” 

“Yes,” Lyall said, shortly. 

Alessandro stood, negligently straightening his cuffs. “The vampire we were tracking. Did he kill again?” he asked, an image of nonchalance. Only Lyall was close enough to see the tension in his shoulders, hidden under the coat which had come through the night remarkably well.

“No,” Channing said, and both Lyall and Alessandro looked up sharply. 

“No? But how-“ Alessandro cut himself off, but the look he gave Lyall was bewildered. 

“Your man at BUR - Haverbink? He got hold of the lads who shut you in, and realised what must have happened. Fortunately, they had taken the papers from the desk upstairs. They staked out the meeting-“ Alessandro snorted, and Channing frowned at him, but Lyall’s lips twitched too, “and managed to catch him before he could harm his next victim. They decided you were best left where you were until sunrise, as it was already dark. But you seem to have managed fine.” Lyall kept his smile bland and did not react to that. Channing huffed, and went on. “He is currently locked up at HQ. Sound asleep, of course. You will be able to question him all you wish this evening.” 

“Good.” Lyall nodded, staring up blandly. “Then you can go find a cab to take Signor Tarabotti back to his residence.” 

Channing hesitated, but an order was still an order, even said mildly; he went, taking the young agent with him and leaving Lyall once more alone with the Italian. 

“Signor Tarabotti again, am I?” Alessandro murmured, mindful of Channing’s hearing – but not so low that Lyall could not make out the wryness of his tone. 

Lyall stepped closer, turning towards him and tilting his chin up; “to Channing? Always, I should hope.” 

Alessandro drew in a breath, eyes widening slightly at Lyall’s bared neck. “But to you?” he asked, softly. 

“…No. Not to me, Alessandro.” 

* * *

Having one’s immortality stolen by a kiss was a startling sensation, and it had more effect than anticipated on various parts of Lyall’s anatomy. His hands, for one, which seemed suddenly drawn to Alessandro’s hair, the nape of his neck. He would have to study the effects, he decided. At length. To learn proper control of them, of course. 

(And there he discovered the silver lining in the damage done to his clothing the day before. When they emerged from the cellar, no one would see the difference; Channing could have all the suspicions he wanted, but Lyall merely smiled, quietly, and said nothing.) 

* * *


End file.
